Driss el jermati morroco\ In the evening
Driss el jermati- morroco
In the evening,
In the evening, little and big things alike tell their stuff according to the way they architect their words. All of a sudden and unjust instant, an eager wretched leaf flies in the sky, rusty are its letters. Time has sent it to say in shy lines, the story of that evening. It has dived along the whole spaces of heaven before it stops at the fisherman's face, slapping him as life has already done. It has covered his face that he would not see the sky. He thinks it is here for a reason _ to tell him a secret of existence. He then removes it from his face so that he would not fall off his worn motorbike. Time has thrown it, exhausted and confused, like the angler himself. He grabbed it with a smile, laughing at its face: - Isn’t it enough what time has done to me? Are you happy with my despair! The man keeps smiling, forgetting about a fragile son with whom the teeth of death are eagerly in love. He now has nothing in mind but a lonely sheet of paper that might be having much more torments and scars... The angler unfolds the leaf before he starts crying... He wishes he were ignorant, illiterate.’ If only I did not exist on this Earth’, he sadly murmurs proceeding with wet eyes that are straining to decode the sad lines: - My alphabet is twisted... My ink has been pouring in vain. You don’t believe in my hesitating voice ... I see... He cries as if he was the last lonely Homosapien on Earth. No one will believe in his absurd melancholy; the poor sheet has more to utter: - Isn’t it enough what they have already committed? I am a surviving martyr and witness to what you did not see ... They were relating false stories about me. They have lied to your orphans after having destroyed the Planet. They have broken into the forests where I used to dwell in peace. And they now pretend to be the saviors and the protestants against the blood sheds. They kill. They die. Look at you! Look at what they have done to your child! They have decided to throw you in the winds_ to me. You and I are only jaded litter on the subways of a mad time. The man has collapsed on the ground, wiping his tears with that worn sheet. He feels the old ink rolling on his cheeks as if eager to write something on the page of face: (Where is the truth...?) The angler has wiped his face. All he can see is the colour of darkness drawn on the angry tableau of the universe. He gas to go home empty-handed... Nothing has changed. The storm is still blowing while the child’s solemn prayer is still being heard....
